


ever onward, through magic, through love

by katherynefromphilly



Series: We Begin Again [4]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Returned Arthur and Merlin in the Modern World, Travelling the world, exploration of magic together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-05 22:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16819543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherynefromphilly/pseuds/katherynefromphilly
Summary: Rome is even more the majestic city Arthur imagined centuries ago, as he’d listened to his tutors’ lessons.  Imperial antiquity breathes from every stone, somehow made even more grandiose in comparison to the modern buildings among them.Unlike their trip to London five months ago, Merlin is comfortable amid the modern chaos.  Despite cars speeding past on too-narrow stone roads, and tourists clogging pavements beneath towering monuments, Merlin shows no signs of distress.Arthur, to his own surprise, is at ease as well.  Not bad for a man born fifteen centuries ago, he thinks, more than once.  It’s an immodest thought, one more befitting the king he was, or perhaps still is, depending upon your point of view.He knows he should let go of such arrogant old habits. But on this one topic, he thinks he’s entitled.It isn’t many people, after all, who could handle being murdered as a king only to emerge from a lake fifteen centuries later, to discover a land he no longer knows. To say nothing of having to prevent a predestined apocalypse days later.  Or deal with being in a relationship with Merlin, who he's apparently been in love with since the first day they met.





	ever onward, through magic, through love

Rome is even more the majestic city Arthur imagined centuries ago, as he’d listened to his tutors’ lessons. Imperial antiquity breathes from every stone, somehow made even more grandiose in comparison to the modern buildings among them.

Unlike their trip to London five months ago, Merlin is comfortable amid the modern chaos. Despite cars speeding past on too-narrow stone roads, and tourists clogging pavements beneath towering monuments, Merlin shows no signs of distress. 

Arthur, to his own surprise, is at ease as well. Not bad for a man born fifteen centuries ago, he thinks, more than once. It’s an immodest thought, one more befitting the king he was, or perhaps still is, depending upon your point of view. 

He knows he should let go of such arrogant old habits. But on this one topic, he thinks he’s entitled.

It isn’t many people, after all, who could handle being murdered as a king only to emerge from a lake fifteen centuries later, to discover a land he no longer knows. To say nothing of having to prevent a predestined apocalypse days later. Or deal with being in love with his half mad sorcerer as well.

Yes, Arthur thinks, the whirlwind of Rome should be an excellent warm up to the challenge that is America, and the rocket launch, days before the Winter Solstice. So far, he and Merlin both are handling everything extremely well.

Well. Until Arthur goes and cocks it all up, of course.

*

They’re sitting upon the balcony of their seaside hotel, in former port town of Ostia Antica, watching the setting sun. Their day had been spent wandering the ruins, amid structures so old that he felt young again.

Merlin is pressed sun soaked and warm against Arthur’s side on the small bench, his third glass of wine held forgotten in his hand, his head resting upon Arthur’s shoulder. He’s humming a snippet of a song they heard in the small Italian restaurant. Something joyous and full of love. He’s positively radiating his contentment, from either the relaxing day or his proximity to the sea, Arthur isn’t sure.

Either way, Arthur goes and ruins it by noticing a plane flying overhead, and wondering aloud what it’s going to be like, when they fly to America.

Merlin tenses by his side.

Arthur winces at his mistake, sunglasses pinching his nose. 

Merlin’s next breath is a rattling inhale he tries to hide by gulping his wine. “Right. That. So, um, I’ll get the tickets tomorrow then.”

His tone is all too familiar. Arthur’s heard it many times before. Usually before Merlin did something spectacularly self-sacrificing in the name of his king.

“Do you want to fly into Miami or Orlando?” Merlin goes on, with such forced cheer that Arthur’s stomach twists. “I can’t remember which one is closer to your precious rocket launch pad. Or space centre. Or whatever it’s called. You’d think I’d remember, with how much you’ve been-”

“Merlin-“

“-prattling on about it, as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world, and anyway-“

“If you’d just-“

“-I can’t remember if you said you wanted first class, because that can be really expensive, but we have the money, so-“

“For the love of the gods,” Arthur snaps, shifting to dislodge Merlin from his side. “Will you shut up for a second?”

Merlin gives him an indignant look, and starts to protest.

Arthur smothers his words with a kiss.

Of course Merlin mumbles into it, insolent as he ever was, always wanting to get the last word in. But Arthur doesn’t allow it, instead brushing kiss after kiss against his full mouth, waiting until Merlin sighs and leans into a lingering press of their lips.

When Arthur leans away, he sees golden sunset glowing like magic upon Merlin’s sharp cheekbones. And when the ocean breeze catches his black hair, moving it over his pale skin, it looks like a caress. Perhaps it even is one.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks into the silence.

Arthur clears his throat. “Might I be permitted to speak now?”

“Well,” Merlin says, and picks up Arthur’s hand, sliding their fingers together until their rings clack, “since you asked so nicely…”

“What I was going to say,” Arthur begins, “is that if you want to stay here longer, then we can stay.”

It’s true, but it’s not what Arthur wants to say. What he wants to say is _‘I know you’re frightened’_ , and _‘I’m uneasy myself’,_ and _‘we don’t have to take up this particular challenge right now’._ They have all the time in the world, after all.

Merlin’s expression shifts like the sea, at first cloudy and worried, then a twitch of raised brows in realization, because of course he knew what Arthur had really meant. A flash of irritation follows, only to melt into something resigned and fond.

For a moment, Arthur thinks Merlin is going to take him up on the unspoken offer. To delay the journey until he is ready. To take more time to adjust. But then Merlin nods, and straightens in his seat, and - _oh_ \- he truly is so unfairly beautiful when he smiles as if Arthur is the only thing he sees. 

“I want to go,” Merlin says.

Arthur cocks an eyebrow, suggesting his displeasure should Merlin be lying.

Merlin laughs, insolent as always. “I _want_ to go,” he insists, his blue eyes sparkling his amusement now. “I mean, for six centuries people have been going on and on about the New World _._ It’s about time I see it for myself, yeah?”

Arthur reads fear and bravado in the twitch of Merlin's lips. But he knows there’s no arguing. Not once Merlin has made up his mind like this. 

So Arthur nods. Lifts Merlin’s hand to his lips. Presses a kiss to the ring he’d given Merlin upon the Tuscan hilltop. 

Together they settle back on the bench.

“It will be warm in Florida, on midwinter’s day,” Arthur says, marvelling at the novelty of it. “It won’t feel like a proper Winter Solstice at all, will it.”

“Without the freezing cold stone floors of the castle, you mean?”

“Or the snow blowing through the corridors.”

“Well, if you you find yourself nostalgic, you can always go stand in front of the refrigerator.”

“I doubt that will be necessary,” Arthur says, and closes his eyes to savour the warm ocean breeze upon his face. “I do hope the weather cooperates with the rocket launch,” he sighs out. “Though if it doesn’t, I’m sure you can have a word with the clouds.”

“You and your fixation on _rockets_ ,” Merlin says fondly. “Freud would have had something to say about that, I bet.”

“It’s not penis envy,” Arthur says, because he understood that reference.

“Well, I should say not.”

“And you would know.”

“Yes. I would.”

Arthur allows himself a few moments of preening at the sex-soaked satisfaction of Merlin’s tone. “If you ask me,” he answers, after clearing his throat, “I think you’re just jealous that rockets are more impressive than magic.”

“Oh they are _not_.”

“They are a little.”

Merlin grumbles and squirms roughly against Arthur’s side. 

“Definitely jealous,” Arthur laughs.

“You’re such a...” Merlin begins, but falls silent as the thunder of a jet engine from the nearby airport echoes from cloud to cloud.

After it fades, Arthur feels Merlin take a deep breath, hold it, then slowly let it out. One of his relaxation techniques, Arthur knows. 

“Won’t be that bad,” Merlin mutters, in that voice he uses when he doesn’t realize he’s speaking aloud. 

In his bones, Arthur is still a warrior. Even sitting on the Italian seaside, fifteen centuries removed from his kingdom and crown, he can feel that strength in his blood. So he recognizes a battle to be fought on one’s own. He knows a man’s worst enemy is often himself.

It makes it not one bit easier to watch Merlin struggle with his private demons, or fight to steady his breath. 

“What sights should we see tomorrow?” Arthur asks. It’s a pathetic attempt to shift the topic. One Merlin recognizes, going on the sigh he gives.

But Merlin doesn’t call him on it. Instead, he spills out stories from history, talking about everything and nothing at all, prattling as much as ever he did on those long rides through the forest.

Arthur allows it - is grateful for it – and relishes in the sound of Merlin’s words and Merlin’s voice, as the sun sinks slowly into the sea.

*

There are many ways to do something impossible. Merlin knows this from painful repeated experience.

In the past, he’d always plunged headlong into any endeavour, and hoped like hell he would survive. He’d gotten through many scrapes that way. He'd even saved the kingdom more times than he could count. 

Until the one time he had not.

Arthur’s return from the dead - and the cataclysm Arthur had helped them avoid – had taught Merlin that acting rashly wasn't necessarily the best plan. Instead of rushing in blindly, head full of steam and heart full of emotion, he should pause to take a critical look. Get the lay of the situation. Evaluate his options. _Then_ he could jump with both feet into the wildeorren’s nest.

That’s why, the next day, Merlin suggests they visit the airport.

Best to see the enemy before the battle, after all.

Arthur agrees, of course he does, enormous technology nerd that he is. The entire drive to Leonardo da Vinci airport, Arthur recites facts about the history of flight from his mobile. He keeps it up even as Merlin guides the car onto a half abandoned airport access road; even as he parks beneath the meagre shade of one of the airfield trees. 

“Such a ridiculous name,” Arthur complains, once they've both climbed out of the car. 

Upon the nearby runway, a gargantuan plane is taxying for take-off. It looks, Merlin thinks, like a skyscraper laying on its side. Its wingspan is the width of Avalon's town square. 

Merlin leans back against the driver's side door. Takes a few calming breaths. "What's a ridiculous name?"

"Airbus," Arthur says, nudging Merlin's elbow as he lifts a hand to shield his sunglassed eyes from the Italian sun. "It's the size of fifty busses at least.”

Merlin wipes sweat from his neck, wishing he could blame the Italian heat for it, but his churning stomach says otherwise. “It’s an aero _plane_ , Arthur. Not an aero _bus_.” 

“I _know_ it’s an aeroplane, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur says, as if scolding him for forgetting obvious court customs. “I’m talking about the aeroplane’s _model_. It’s called the Airbus. The A-320. Or, no, wait… It’s the A-380, actually, going on the shape of the cockpit.”

“Right, the A380,” Merlin repeats, throat dry as the brown bottle brush littering the airfields.

“It’s world’s largest passenger airliner,” Arthur continues, apparently having memorized the entire Wikipedia entry. “Two stories, four jet engines, and a capacity of over five hundred people.”

Five hundred people, Merlin thinks, and tries not to vomit his breakfast all over his trainers. The entire attendance of the Solstice Festival in Avalon wasn’t even five hundred. Or it wasn’t before that business with the island, anyway. 

He can’t even begin to imagine that many people crammed into that flying metal tube. Especially not twenty thousand feet in the air.

“How long is the flight, did you say?” Merlin asks, voice higher than intended.

“Only nine hours from Rome to Miami.”

“ _Nine_ hours?”

“I know, incredible, isn’t it?” Arthur asks, too busy grinning like a delighted young boy at a fair to catch Merlin’s horror. “It’s hard to imagine something that big moving so fast, isn’t it? It barely looks like it can fly!”

Merlin wipes sweaty palms on his t-shirt. “It’s just physics.”

“Physics and engineering and science, all of your favourite things.”

“ _Your_ favourite things, you mean,” Merlin says, and presses his palms to the Bentley’s door, because the plane's engines are rising in pitch and in volume.

The jet surges down the runway with a bone rattling roar of engines.

Arthur gives a whoop of laughter and holds his mobile up to record video. “It’s taking off!”

“I know!”

“Gods above but that’s loud!”

“What?”

“I said it’s loud!”

“ _What_?”

“Just look!”

Merlin slaps his hands to his ears, the thundering engines vibrating his car and his chest, as the jet lifts from the runway with shocking grace, its exhaust distorting the air as it angles upward.

What is that _like_? Merlin thinks wildly. To be carried so abruptly away from the earth- To be wrapped so tightly in metal- No way out and no way down- Twenty thousand feet from the song of the earth-

Arthur laughs again, as delighted and astonished as is befitting a man newly discovering the modern world.

Stop it, Merlin thinks savagely at himself. _Stop_. It’s only _flying_. It’s nothing to be scared of. Other people do it, don't they? And I was a bird, that one summer, wasn’t I? I know what it’s like to _fly_.

Though not, admittedly, so very high up. 

And not wrapped in a coffin of steel and glass.

“That was amazing!” Arthur says, when the jet is just a dot of silver in the sky. 

“Yes,” Merlin croaks out, and forces a smile, because Arthur is studying him now, his smile melting away. “It was, yes. That. What you said.”

He can’t see Arthur’s eyes behind his dark sunglasses. But he can see the pinching of his brows. 

“I’ll buy the plane tickets tonight,” Merlin adds, and climbs into the car.

Arthur joins him without protest, but also without comment. They drive in silence back to the hotel.

*

That night, Merlin blinks awake to the sound of a jet engine, and remembers foggily that he’d forgot to buy the plane tickets.

He struggles to get out of his tangle of blankets. He’s apparently on the floor. How had he gotten on the floor? 

Wine, he remembers. There had been wine earlier. A bottle. Or was it two? 

It’s still nighttime, and probably not even that late, going on the fact that the room’s light is on. He couldn't have been passed out _too_ long, because he's not hung over yet, and after two bottles of wine- or was it three?- he really, really should be.

“Awake, are we?” comes Arthur’s irritatingly sober voice from atop the bed.

Merlin squints up at him. Arthur is shirtless and sitting up with his back pressed to the headboard, a laptop open on his legs. The glowing screen sharpens his noble profile; an ancient king lit up by modern technology. The sight is made even stranger by Arthur holding up a credit card, and typing the numbers into the machine.

“Tickets,” Merlin slurs out, remembering why he’d drunk so much in the first place. He’d been working up the courage to buy the tickets. But then he hadn’t done it. For some reason or other.

“I’m placing the order now,” Arthur says.

Merlin shoves himself up. Topples to the floor. Shoves himself up again. “Order? What order?”

“For the _tickets_ ,” Arthur says, in his you’re-being-an-idiot voice.

“I was going to do that.”

“Yes, so you said, repeatedly. And then you passed out.”

Merlin crawls over to the bed, and realizes on the way that he’s naked. Wait, did they have sex?

“You passed out before we could,” Arthur says, because apparently he’d said that out loud. “Honestly, Merlin. You're just totally useless to me tonight.”

Merlin leans on the bedside, squints at the screen, then groans and presses his face into Arthur’s cloth covered thigh. _Damn_ the display is bright.

“There,” Arthur says, with the decisive tap of a key that’s like a hammer on Merlin’s head. “It’s all taken care of.”

“Hate planes,” Merlin mumbles into the mattress.

“So you’ve been saying. For the past two bottles of wine.”

“ _Really_ hate planes.”

“Yes, I know. Which is why we’re travelling by boat.”

Merlin’s wine-soaked brain repeats the word a few times before the meaning actually registers. “Boat?” 

“Ship, to be more precise,” Arthur says. He's smiling like the cat who’d got the cream, and was waiting for a pat on the head in reward.

“Ship?” Merlin repeats. "What ship?"

“You really are just useless, aren’t you,” Arthur says, fond, and slides his fingers through Merlin’s hair. “Just look at you.”

Merlin blinks at him. Because… _what_?

Arthur huffs, put-upon, and closes the laptop. “Come up here, drunken sorcerer.”

“Not drunk,” Merlin lies, climbing with thick muddled limbs onto the bed, kneeing Arthur in the thigh in the process. 

Once they're settled on the bed, Arthur pulls the blankets around them. “Go to sleep,” he whispers, and curls himself around Merlin’s back, arms slid around his waist, pulling him close.

Merlin leans back against the solid heat Arthur's bare chest, content and sleepy and getting a little aroused and- wait, wait- What were they just talking about again?

"Ship," Merlin says, and passes out.

*

Merlin is approaching two hours hunched over the toilet, revisiting last night’s dinner, when he remembers the plane tickets. His stomach is mid-lurch as he vaguely recalls the conversation. But his hangover-thick thoughts don't reveal any detail.

He opens his mouth to call to Arthur, who is standing on the other side of the bathroom door. 

Instead, he throws up again.

“Stop being stubborn,” Arthur shouts through the too-thin barrier. “Just use your damn magic to feel better so we can go for a run on the beach!”

“That’s not what magic is for,” Merlin croaks into the commode.

“As opposed to washing my laundry?”

“That was fifteen centuries ago!”

“You just did it _last week_.”

“Not the same,” Merlin protests, and throws up again.

“Stubborn idiot,” Arthur tells him, and leaves to go jogging on his own.

When Arthur returns to the hotel room that afternoon, he’s all rosy-cheeks and wind-blown blond hair and bare chest glistening with sweat. Usually the sight would drag Merlin’s thoughts right down to the gutter.

But not today. 

Today, Merlin can’t stop staring at the laptop screen. He had climbed onto the bed and had opened it up, to finally buy the damned plane tickets.

He'd found an order confirmation email instead.

“You bought us tickets,” Merlin says, as Arthur approaches the bedside, bringing with him the salty tang of sweat and sea air. 

"The order went through then, did it? Splendid.”

Merlin is briefly distracted by Arthur pulling off his shirt and wiping down the flexing muscles of his muscled arms. Incredibly, Arthur is even more fit now than he'd been in Camelot. How he manages to look like some sort of Olympic athlete is- Merlin shakes his head; winces at his throbbing headache, then grunts in irritation. "As I was _saying_ ," he snaps, forcing his gaze to Arthur's face, "you bought us _tickets_."

"All by myself, yes."

"They're for a _boat_ , Arthur-”

“It's a transatlantic _cruise_ , Merlin.” 

“Boat, cruise, whatever. What happened to flying?”

“We had a discussion about it last night."

Arthur's chin is tipped up, and his face is carefully expressionless, and maybe someone else who isn't Merlin wouldn't see the guilt or the defiance, but Merlin does, all too well. "Oh we discussed it, did we?" 

"Yes. Last night."

Merlin wants to throttle him. "You know perfectly well that I was drunk last night!"

“It’s not my fault you rendered yourself witless on wine,” Arthur informs him, and tosses his shirt to the hotel room floor like the gigantic prat that he is. “Now order us some supper. You look pale as a fish, and I’m half starved from the exercise you were too hungover to enjoy."

Merlin stares, open mouthed and indignant, as Arthur strides off to the washroom and shuts the door behind him, as if that is the end of that.

Arthur clearly doesn’t expect to be followed, because when Merlin bangs open the door Arthur startles where he stands by the toilet, hastily yanking up his sweaty running trousers.

“Do you _mind_?” Arthur demands, all offended royalty.

“Oh like I haven’t seen you do any of that before,” Merlin says, his glare speaking volumes of emptied chamber pots and hunting trips into the woods.

Arthur flushes scarlet, because apparently he really has gone fully modern, if he’s so disturbed by Merlin seeing his biological habits. He certainly never had been before. “What is wrong with you?” he demands.

“The boat tickets!” Merlin shouts, and then slaps a hand to his temple. Damn _hangover_ …

“I don’t understand what you’re so upset about,” Arthur insists. “It’s better this way.”

“Better for who?”

“Better for you.”

“Which is why it should have been my choice!” Merlin shouts, the pain in his head _nothing_ compared to the pain in his heart, when he sees the wounded look Arthur gives him in response.

So he turns from it, turns and runs, striding out of the room and down the hotel hall, furious and frustrated and confused as hell. His legs carry him outside, and across the oceanside lane, and finally onto the beach, bare toes digging into the sand with every step, marching him forward and forward until he’s standing ankles-deep in the lapping waves of the ocean.

He stops there, panting, his path blocked by the broad body of the water that’s the entire damned reason for this mess.

“Stupid ocean!” Merlin shouts, and kicks at the water.

In response, the waves crash their distress upon the sandy beach. Around his ankles, the foam begs forgiveness for a transgression it hasn’t even made. Beyond the breakers, frantic fish swim in helpless circles, unable to ease his pain. And in the depths, whales sing their remorse into the distant seas.

Merlin bends down to the retreating waves, fingertips brushing the water, too late remembering himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, angry only at himself now, for lashing out. “I’m sorry,” he says again, meaning it with all that he is, man and magic both.

 _You are part of us_ , the ocean whispers back, as it caresses his fingers.

 _We are yours_ , the wind sighs, as it soothes his hair.

 _Let us remind you_ , the earth begs, from beneath his bare toes.

Merlin gives the only answer he can. The only answer he wants to.

 _Yes.._. _please…_

All around him, the world melts into gold.

*

“Merlin?” comes Arthur’s voice, from a distance.

Skin touching his skin; a palm upon his arm; fingers sliding through his own. Holding tight.

The sensations draw Merlin back into his fragile shell of human flesh. Miniscule compared to the ocean. His bones still feel the pull of the moon. He leans into it, half listening for the song of the whales.

“Do you feel it?” Merlin whispers.

Arthur presses to his side, his arm warm against Merlin’s own, as the waves slide around their legs. “Feel what?”

“So beautiful,” Merlin says, voice trembling. Or no, not his voice. His whole body is trembling. Gone cold and stiff. How long has he been standing here? He can’t remember.

“Merlin, what do you feel?”

“This,” Merlin sighs, and wraps magic around him and Arthur both.

He uses the connection the magics of Avalon have bound them with, for now and all times. Through them, Merlin feels Arthur’s shock, and then his amazement, melting swiftly into joyous wonder.

They feel it together, the heaving of magic through the distant seas. Deep in the ocean trenches they see strange creatures move in a dark of eternal night. In the vast stretches between continents, they feel massive creatures dance and breathe. And far away, so far away, they feel the ocean lapping at another shore. 

Magic surges at the touch of their child. Magic sings at the presence of the Once and Future King of men.

“Merlin,” comes Arthur’s voice, choked with emotion. 

Merlin’s eyes snap open, and he draws a sharp breath, fingers tight around the hand clasping his own. 

The sun is much lower than he remembers it being when he’d stepped into the water. He’s cold, and his feet ache, and the tide is to his thighs.

“Come with me,” Arthur says, and pulls at Merlin’s arm.

“Yes, sire,” Merlin hears himself say, and staggers with his king to the shore.

*

It takes a long while for Merlin to fully re-join the world. Arthur doesn’t blame him; he’s still dazed himself. His thoughts are thick; he’s easily distracted into staring. It’s that woken middle of the night feeling. One foot in a dream and the other seeking solid ground. 

It’s been months since he’s felt such strong after-affects of Merlin pulling him into magic. He wishes- no, he _yearns_ \- that Merlin has been doing it more often. 

In magic’s afterglow, Arthur’s senses are sharply attenuated to it. The sea yet shimmers gold, the breeze sighs upon his face, and the thrum of the earth echoes in his ears.

Arthur’s stomach growls, and he startles, realizing he’s been standing in the middle of the hotel room for gods knew how long, staring at the swirling echoes of magic sliding around him.

“Food,” he reminds himself, and forces himself to focus enough to order them supper. When it arrives, he carries two plates to the balcony. Sets one of them in Merlin’s limp hands. Has to wrap Merlin’s fingers around it, to make sure it doesn’t topple from his legs.

Merlin blinks himself awake and looks up. Then down at the plate. Then, frowning, out at the setting sun.

“Eat,” Arthur tells him, and sits close by his side to do the same.

It’s fully night by the time Merlin finally returns to him, inhaling as if coming up from deep underwater, shaking his head, and then his body, a powerful shudder.

Arthur adjusts the blanket over their laps. Waits until Merlin speaks.

“It made me feel like a coward, what you did,” Merlin says to the sea.

The words land like a blow to the stomach. Arthur grips his thighs in response. Because yes. He can see it. Far too clearly, he can. “That wasn’t my intent,” he says. “You know I think you’re the bravest man I ever-“

“I know.”

“It was never my intent to-“

“I know. I do. It’s all right, Arthur.”

“It’s not all right, it’s-“ Arthur turns on the bench, shakes his head at Merlin’s profile, and at the pain he’d so thoughtlessly caused. “I just didn’t want you to suffer needlessly. You’ve already suffered more than enough.”

“We both have.”

“Yes, we have, and there’s no cause for it any longer. There’s no destiny forcing our hand. No one to prove anything to.” 

“Except ourselves.”

“And I took that choice away from you,” Arthur says softly. “Gods, Merlin, I’m-“

“Please don’t apologize.”

“I want to. Merlin,” Arthur urges, and slides his fingertips along Merlin’s jawline, urging his gaze away from the sea. “Let me?”

Merlin smiles at him, sad but fond. “Well, if you insist…”

“I do,” Arthur says, and leans in to brush a kiss to Merlin’s lips in silent apology, and then another, in a promise not to do it again, and then one more, just in case he forgets.

When they part, Merlin rests his forehead against Arthur’s, and brushes their noses together. “So what now?” he asks softly.

“Whatever you want. I mean it. It’s your decision.”

Merlin hums, and leans in to drag a rough cheek full of stubble against Arthur’s, which is more arousing than it has any business being, in Arthur’s opinion. “Well,” Merlin says, “if _someone_ hadn’t already bought cruise tickets, I would say that we should fly.”

Merlin sounds not only unbothered but playful, which makes no sense. When Arthur leans away, looking for discomfort, he sees only calm blue eyes focused on his own. “Why…?”

“The wind would never let us fall,” Merlin explains. “The sky would never cause us harm. I should have known that before.” 

“And you know that now because…?”

“They told me.”

Arthur can only imagine how dumbfounded he looks, but it must be quite significantly, going on Merlin’s amused reaction. “You spoke… to the wind?” Arthur asks.

“No one can speak to _wind_ , Arthur,” Merlin says, as if this were something a child should know. “I spoke to the magic _within_ the wind.”

“You spoke to the magic _within_ …” Arthur squints at him. “Are you making this up?”

“Not this time,” Merlin laughs. “I promise.”

“The magic… within the wind… told you,” Arthur repeats, and looks out at the hazy line where dark ocean meets orange sky, wondering what stories the sea might be telling the breeze, and if Merlin is in any of them.

“Do you want to hear it?”

The question is unexpected, but Arthur doesn’t hesitate answering. He never does, with Merlin. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

Merlin tilts his head, uncertain. “You sure?”

Arthur holds out his hands by way of reply. 

Merlin smiles as he slides their fingers together.

It’s a short time later now, or perhaps a long time, Arthur doesn’t know and doesn’t care, because oh- great gods above- everything is so beautiful, and vibrating with life, and so _colourful_ \- and how did he not see these colours before, how did he not know, and is it like this all the time-?

 _Yes_ , comes Merlin’s reply, and Arthur can feel his touch in the magic that slides around him like rivulets of warm water, as they drift within the depths of the sea.

Beautiful, Arthur tells it all, drunk and dazed and wanting it never to end. Beautiful, it’s all so beautiful…

 _Tell him,_ Merlin says to the magic embracing them. _Tell him now_.

 _We are yours_ , says the sea, rolling around him, pulling him under and lifting him up, guiding his voyage through the waters.

 _We are yours,_ sighs the breeze, swirling above him and dancing beneath him, endless and beautiful as the earth below.

 _Always, always yours_ , comes another voice, this one stronger than the others by magnitudes.

Arthur only realizes _it’s _Merlin__ when he hears the same words spoken in his ear, and then against his mouth, as they fall into one another’s arms, magic wild and dancing upon their skin.

*

Stars shine down upon the rolling seas. Arthur can feel the magic within it yet. Cresting upon the waves. Washing onto the shore. Sinking back into the land.

He’s only just started to feel human again, the fragile shell of his flesh and bone closing too small and too frail around him. His heartbeat is nothing compared to the roaring pulse of the tide. His breathing is a faint echo of the storms raging over distant lands.

Arthur lifts his hand; tries to see the magic that had slid like golden satin between his fingers. But all he sees is their small hotel room. It’s slipping farther and farther away from him. He mourns its loss.

Beyond the open window, he hears the faint hum of distant cars. Italian voices raised in delight and laughter. Music from nearby restaurants.

Merlin shifts upon his chest, heavy and exhausted and sweaty, only to collapse back upon him, his breath huffing hot against Arthur’s neck. The bed sheets are a rumpled catastrophe beneath them. There’s a cooling wet spot- or, well, several actually- beneath Arthur’s thighs. 

He finds himself reminded of that night after their time in Avalon. Of how drunk they’d both been on magic.

“You always feel it, don’t you,” Arthur says.

“Mmm?”

“Magic, I mean. You always feel it.”

Merlin hums an affirmative, and presses his lips to Arthur’s bare shoulder.

“That’s why you use your hands,” Arthur says. “You can actually _feel_ it, can’t you. Moving through the world. Responding to your will and to your words.”

Merlin lifts his head, looking drunk and sated and gorgeous, a faint smile upon wet full lips. His hair is a wreck and his face is flushed and his neck is a nightmare of purple bruises.

Because of me, Arthur thinks, pleased, and slides his palm up the familiar landscape of Merlin’s back. The sensation of skin against skin has him shivering, involuntary, as he remembers the magic-soaked pleasure washing through him, crashing down and receding, only to repeat itself again, like the ocean waves upon the shore.

“Can you still feel it?” Merlin asks.

“No,” Arthur sighs, and moves his fingers through the air. But he feels nothing. Not anymore.

“How about now?” Merlin asks, all innocence, and slides a hand up Arthur’s chest. 

Magic sparks into Arthur’s skin, and he arches beneath Merlin’s weight, his body confused about whether it should be aroused or exhausted. “Merlin,” he says, trying to sound scolding. When Merlin chuckles, far too pleased, Arthur catches his hand, and tries to give him a stern look.

“Worn out already?” Merlin teases, but he yawns in the middle of the question.

Arthur lifts Merlin’s hand to his lips. Kisses him in lieu of other activities that require far too much energy for how tired they both are. “We should do this more often,” he whispers into Merlin’s hair.

“More than we already do?” Merlin asks, playful.

“Not the sex,” Arthur says, though by all the gods he has absolutely no qualms about _that_. “I meant sharing _magic_.”

Merlin lifts his head, his kiss swollen lips parting on a surprised breath, his widening eyes turning him youthful in the moonlight. “Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

Merlin’s smile so radiant that Arthur can’t prevent what he’s sure is a truly idiotic and utterly besotted grin. 

“All right,” Merlin says, breathless and gazing at Arthur as if he’s everything he’s ever wanted, a devotion Arthur still feels he doesn’t deserve. 

“Sleep,” Arthur tells him, and gathers his ridiculous sorcerer into his arms, pressing kiss after kiss to the mess of his black hair, each one an oath of fealty, and of friendship, and of love.

*

Before they leave for America, they spend one last day in Rome, staying well away from the tourists, exploring side streets and shops. 

When the heat of the day makes them long for their hotel, Merlin pauses by the stairs leading down to the city’s Underground. 

“Let’s use the Metro,” Merlin says.

“The Metro?” Arthur repeats, because the offer is unexpected, to say the least. London’s Underground had been a nightmarish experience. Too well he remembers Merlin’s pale face, shaking limbs, frantic eyes.

But a secretive smile is upon Merlin’s lips, confident and knowing. “It’ll be all right.”

“You’re sure?”

Merlin rolls his eyes as if Arthur is being silly. “Just come _on_.”

Arthur remains wary as they descend stairways and escalators, through subterranean tunnels and onto a platform, to step with the commuting crowds into an underground train. 

This time, as they hurtle through tunnels carved deep into the earth, Merlin’s face is beatific. As the train rattles and shakes and speeds through the dark, Merlin’s eyes drift closed; his lips pull into a smile.

Arthur presses closer to Merlin’s side. “Are you all right?”

When Merlin opens his eyes, gold sparkles within them. It’s not the bright light of him weaving a spell, but it’s there, all the same.

It’s visible to the people pressed nearby, but Arthur could care less. He’s too curious by how different Merlin seems, despite the rattling metal train car around them. “You really are all right,” Arthur says, wondering.

Merlin actually manages to look embarrassed. “I just didn’t look hard enough in London. I was so distracted by the things directly around me... I didn’t pay attention to the earth, holding us. The earth will always protect us, Arthur. She’s promised she will.”

Arthur wants to hear it, the promises of the earth, just as he heard the voice of the ocean and the wind. But he dares not interrupt the way Merlin’s eyes slide languidly shut, nor does he want to disturb the contentment softening Merlin’s sharp features.

His sorcerer is at peace amid screaming brakes and shuddering steel. And that is enough of a gift for Arthur to be given, without asking for more.

*

In the end, it’s Merlin who decides that they’ll travel by ship after all. 

Not because of his fears. No, he’s truly come to terms with all of that. Instead, his reasons are more practical. And they don’t surprise Arthur at all.

“They better not put a single scratch on my Bentley,” Merlin says darkly, apparently unimpressed by the city-sized ship floating off the dock where they’re standing. His entire attention is focused upon where the dock workers are loading crates and boxes - as well as Merlin’s precious antique car - into the ocean vessel’s hull.

“You and that car,” Arthur says out of habit, not really paying much attention. He’s still trying to wrap his head around the multi-storey vessel sitting tethered to their dock. 

The entire population of Camelot could have fit within its walls, Arthur thinks. Camelot and Mercia besides. Good gods above, how did the thing stay _afloat_?

Over the loudspeaker, a voice informs the passengers of the transatlantic ocean liner - and here Merlin’s translation spell stammers in Arthur’s head, because Brittonic simply did not have these concepts - that the Prestige Tier Passengers are permitted to board.

That’s them, Arthur knows, because he booked the most expensive lodgings on the ship. But Arthur doesn’t bother budging. He knows Merlin’s not going anywhere yet.

“I’ll be checking every inch of that car when we get to Florida,” Merlin murmurs, putting Arthur in mind of lightning and fire. 

Arthur rubs Merlin’s back to distract him. “Calm down, will you? It’ll be fine.” 

“It’s a valuable _antique_ , Arthur.”

“You’re the antique.”

“Oi!” Merlin shouts over the railing. “Watch it!”

“Gods above,” Arthur sighs, and settles in until Merlin’s precious car is aboard.

*

Only a few steps into their assigned accommodations, Merlin drops their bags, shocked.

Their accommodations - and there are three rooms he can see so far - are the size of a luxury flat. Floor to ceiling windows display the harbour beyond the living room. A modern kitchen sits gleaming nearby it. And at the far side of the the open floor plan, he spots two doorways, to a bedroom and a bath.

“I thought that rooms on cruise ships were supposed to be _small_ ,” Merlin says.

Arthur wanders through the plentiful living room furniture, surveying it with a critical kingly eye. “I thought it would be larger, to be honest. Especially for the price.”

“What do you mean, for the price?”

Arthur quotes a number that has Merlin choking on his reply.

“Oh, as if we can’t afford it,” Arthur says, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

The gesture reminds Merlin sharply of the self-indulgent Prince Arthur once had been, fresh-faced and fearless and too full of his own importance. 

He can still see Arthur upon the training fields, sun glinting upon his princely armour, young knights scrabbling for his approval.

Arthur had been stunningly beautiful wielding a sword. Even back then Merlin could see it. Hell, even people in the next kingdom could see it. Arthur had been radiant, Camelot’s destined Crown Prince, shining with his confidence and with his charisma and with his passion to protect his people.

Betrayal after betrayal had ripped away Arthur’s youth. Death and desperation had lead him on a funeral march, to the grey rocky canyon where he tasted his own blood, to the lakeside where he lay dying, to the boat that carried him across the water, away and away from where Merlin stood weeping, broken and so alone-

Merlin startles at a hand grabbing his shoulder. When he blinks, tears slide from blurry eyes, revealing Arthur standing in their ship rooms before him, the Italian harbour a beautiful vista behind him.

“Arthur,” Merlin chokes out.

Arthur closes the distance between him, arms going around Merlin’s back, holding him uncomfortably tight. “I’m alive,” he says. “Merlin, I’m alive.”

Merlin drops his forehead to Arthur’s shoulder, hearing Arthur murmur reassurances into his ear. It’s been weeks - no, _months_ \- since something like this has happened. He’s been so good - well, better at least - for so very long. He’s furious with himself that he’s let it happen again. When in the hell is it going to _stop happening_?

“Do you think the ship’s room service has started?” Arthur asks. 

Merlin tightens his grip on the back of Arthur’s t-shirt. Forces in a deep breath, and then another. Still can’t manage an answer.

“I wonder if they have proper chips,” Arthur says, sounding curious. “The good kind, I mean. Like in that little shop near the manor. You know the one.”

“In Avalon?” Merlin croaks out, because even though he knows Arthur is only trying to distract him, it’s working, just like it always does.

“Yes, the one Heath took me too. Excellent chips, there. Just the way I like them.”

“Not soggy, right?”

“Exactly. Well. It’s worth a try. Do you think they’ve started serving food?”

Merlin leans away. Drags his palm over his eyes. “They probably have the hours listed. On the menu.”

“I’ll order the food while you unpack. You do remember how to put my clothes away, don’t you?”

This is how things go, Merlin knows this. It’s happened countless times before. When he feels himself fall apart, Arthur teases him back to his senses, poking and making light of things until the moment is past, the crisis is averted, and Merlin can find his way back as if it never happened.

This time, it isn’t want Merlin wants.

This time, he steps close, cups Arthur’s regal jawline in both his hands, and presses a soft, lingering kiss to Arthur’s startled lips.

When he leans away, he sees Arthur’s brows have lifted high, his blue eyes round and surprised, his lips kissed-wet and parted in his shock.

“Thank you,” Merlin says.

Arthur clears his throat, then nods, looking confused.

It’s a handsome look on him, one Merlin wants to kiss from his face. Instead, he goes to get the bags. “Order me something fancy from room service,” Merlin tells him, as he carries their bags to the bedroom. “And tell them to leave it inside the door. We’ll be busy.”

“Busy?” Arthur asks curiously.

Merlin pauses by the bedroom door and gives Arthur a significant look.

“Oh!” Arthur laughs, and grabs the menu. “Right. _Busy_.”

“And you say _I’m_ the slow one,” Merlin laughs, then trips over his bag and tumbles through the bedroom door.

*

Merlin’s embarrassing tumble, and Arthur nearly straining himself laughing, is the most eventful thing that happens for seven days.

Considering that they only have monotonous ocean views around them, the time passes with astonishing speed.

The ship offers the luxuries of a resort town- shopping and swimming and nightclubs and fine dining- so there’s more than enough things to do. When they want company, there’s other people to entertain them. When they don’t, they retire to the more _intimate_ entertainments within their rooms.

Overall, it’s an enjoyable - if uneventful - trip.

Until they hit the storm.

*

Only a day off the American mainland, a tropical depression works itself up into a hurricane. It’s not severe enough to warrant a change of route, but it is bad enough to toss the ship around. Fifty foot waves crest high over grey rolling seas, and fall with a thundering crash upon the dining hall windows.

Arthur grabs once again for his dinner plate and silverware, as it slides away across the table. He isn’t fast enough to save his tea, which goes toppling to the floor.

He sees more passengers rise from a nearby table, only to stagger and trip over one another as they retreat from the hall.

Another wave crashes against the grey windows, loud enough to startle shouts from their fellow passengers. As the water slides down the glass, cheers and applause echo through the room, obviously from the more storm-weathered passengers.

“We’ve seen much worse than this,” says the old man sitting to Arthur’s left.

“Is that so?” Arthur answers, then lurches in his chair as the ship heaves to the right.

“Yes, quite,” the man’s wife agrees, as she daintily cuts into her steak. “The June cruise last year, wasn’t it, dear?”

The old man hums and absently catches his fork as it slides away.

Arthur glances down at his untouched plate, feels his stomach twist, and makes the mistake of looking out of the windows. They dark ocean heaves and churns beyond it, the horizon line completely obscured, the misery of clouds melting into sheets of rain in a nightmare landscape that has Arthur squeezing his eyes shut and fighting to keep down his two dinner rolls.

“Would you like a seasick pill?” the old woman asks.

“No, thank you,” Arthur tells her, through clenched teeth.

Another wave has the entire table shifting sideways a foot, and nearly shocks Arthur from his chair.

“My, that was a big one,” the old man notes, and sips at his wine.

Arthur grabs his glass of water before it can slide off the table. “How,” he asks Merlin, “are you not _bothered_ by this?”

Merlin turns his attention from his dinner plate, which is irritatingly empty except for a few crumbs, because apparently Merlin’s stomach doesn’t care about little things like nausea or seasickness. “It’s just a little storm,” he says, as if Arthur is being ridiculous.

There’s a deafening cacophony, like a pottery shop pitching over a waterfall. Arthur cringes along with everyone else, turning in his seat to see the final tinkle of glass, as the last of the dishes fall down the stairs.

“All right,” Merlin amends. “It’s a _big_ storm.”

Arthur grabs for the sliding basket of rolls, misses, then watches in despair as the only food he can stomach goes tumbling to the floor. “Can’t you _do_ something about this?“ he snaps at Merlin.

“The rolls?”

“The _storm_ , Merlin! Do something about the bloody storm!”

“I can’t do that,” Merlin says, just as Arthur feared he might. “Weather like this is too interconnected. If I were to upset that natural balance-“

“Never mind,” Arthur grumbles, distracted by the old man and woman getting to their feet. “Leaving us already?”

“It’s best to ride these things out in your rooms, young man,” the old woman says, and gives Arthur’s hand a kind little pat before taking the old man’s arm.

They take two steps before the floor tilts - and keeps on tilting. The old couple grabs for each other as they fall, but Arthur is already on his feet, arms wrapping around them as they tumble together to the floor.

They land far too gently – something obviously slowing and cushioning their fall - as all around him, screams and shouts and the shattering of glass and china fill the air.

Arthur gets the old couple to their feet and accepts their thanks, then helps them over to where crew members are helping the frightened passengers back to their rooms.

The ship is still lurching under Arthur’s feet as he staggers over to where Merlin stands, back rigid, palms pressed to rain soaked glass. Arthur sees indignant fury in the jut of Merlin’s jaw; the press of Merlin’s lips. 

“That’s _enough_ ,” Merlin growls at the window, gold filling his eyes, drowning out the blue. “You have to calm _down_. _Now_.”

Merlin’s outrage reminds Arthur, wildly, of _Uther_. Of when Father had been especially disappointed in him. Of the furious punishment that had followed.

“What are you doing?” Arthur asks, because he knows what Merlin’s capable of.

“Just reminding the sea that we’re here,” Merlin says, and beyond the window, lightning strikes into the heaving waves, and spreads like fingers into the rebellious sea.

*

As they return to their cabin, a voice over the ship’s loud speaker says that they’re through the worst of it. 

Already the waves have eased, though not enough to keep Arthur from banging his shoulder on the bedroom doorway, as he staggers to their bed.

He collapses face down upon it, then shoves his head beneath a mountain of pillows. The dark, unfortunately, is no refuge from the far too active waves. If anything, it actually _heightens_ the sense of moving. 

Up and down, up and down…

Arthur groans and squirms on the bed, uncomfortable in his jeans and shirt. When he swallows bile, he clutches the nearby pillow and smashes it over his face, yearning for solid ground.

There’s a motion on the bed, and then Merlin’s hand pressing warm and solid to his back. “The ocean won’t hurt us, Arthur.”

“Tell that to my stomach,” Arthur moans.

Silence, in response. And then, “I think I have an idea.”

“ _No_.”

“It’s a good one. I promise.”

Arthur grunts and flops a hand upon the bed.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Merlin says, sounding amused, and really Arthur would say something about that, except for when he’s done speaking, Arthur feels the world go _blissfully motionless_.

Arthur lifts his head, blinking, only to discover that the grey churning view beyond the bedroom windows is the same horrible thing it was before.

“It’s better if you don’t look out of the windows,” Merlin says. 

Arthur does as he’s asked, pressing his face to the blankets. Everything is still again. Only the ghost echo of motion sits uneasy in his body. But it’s much much better than before. “How are you doing this?”

“I’m keeping the bed level,” Merlin says, sounding pleased.

"How-?"

"By floating it above the floor.”

Ridiculous sorcerer, Arthur thinks fondly. “Lay down with me,” he says instead.

When Merlin stretches along his side, still in his clothes, he drapes his arm over Arthur’s back. “The ocean is sorry for making you sick,” Merlin says.

The air stirs, and Arthur smells sand and salt and the sunlight-warmed sea. He thinks he’s just been apologized to. “Tell the ocean it’s all right.”

“Yes, sire.”

That night, Arthur dreams he’s floating in a peaceful river thick with magic, and that the river is _Merlin_ , holding him in a lover’s protective embrace, guiding him ever onward.

*

Florida, it turns out, holds more adventure than the Atlantic.

“Are you sure America doesn’t have dragons?” Arthur asks, as he stands upon the flat _flat_ Florida road, staring at a scaled creature half sunken in the nearby bog.

“There aren’t any more dragons, I told you that,” Merlin says testily, and bangs some more in the Bentley’s exposed engine, steam swirling around him as cars speed past on the road. 

“Yes, but are you certain?” Arthur asks, because he _knows_ those reptilian eyes. Is the beast looking at him? He can’t be sure. Perhaps it’s asleep with its eyes open. He steps closer, curious. “Perhaps here, they survived. It’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Arthur, I think that I would know if- Ow! Damn it!” Merlin emerges from beneath the bonnet shaking his hand in the air. His cheeks and forehead are smudged with the same oil that covers his blue t-shirt. “What are you-?“

A violent splashing has Arthur jolting, grabbing for a sword that isn’t there. 

Merlin’s arm thrusts forward, and the scaled creature flies backward with tail whipping and jaws snapping through the air. It lands with a gigantic splash a dozen yards distant, then surfaces to glare - angrily, Arthur thinks - back in their direction.

It has him laughing, which turns Merlin furious. 

“That wasn’t funny!” Merlin shouts, his voice echoing over the waters.

“It most certainly was,” Arthur says, through laughter.

Merlin glares at him, as indignant and outraged as ever he had been, when his king had laughed off danger a continent away and a millennium ago.

“That was an alligator, wasn’t it,” Arthur says thoughtfully, peering at where the thing is gliding through the water. “Well. I thought they’d be larger.”

“Larger!” Merlin slaps his palm to his forehead then drags it down his face, smudging oil everywhere as he huffs in indignant exasperation. “We’ve not even been here _two days_! And _already_ you almost got eaten by something.”

“Just like old times, then,” Arthur says cheerfully.

Merlin’s mouth opens in outrage and closes with a snap. “You,” he says, pointing at Arthur, “are unbelievable.”

Just like old times, Arthur thinks again, and spends the next several minutes happily listening to the music of Merlin’s grousing and swearing, as he works to fix the car’s engine problems.

Bubbles in the bog announce the arrival of another set of eyes, farther away but larger than the other ones. “A shame we don’t have weapons,” Arthur says. “Hunting these creatures would be an interesting challenge.” 

“We are not going alligator hunting on our vacation!”

Merlin sounds especially adamant, which can only mean one thing. “So they _do_ hunt alligators here?”

“What? No! I mean- Yes, _maybe_ , but- You’d have to be mental to hunt those things!”

Arthur just hums, smiling to himself, already making plans.

*

Three days later, Arthur is pressed to Merlin’s side in a fan boat, humid wind whipping through his hair, sun shining glorious down upon the marshes. They’re speeding through the swamps of Loughman Lake, looking for alligators.

A man who calls himself Tracker is their guide, driving them through broad marshes, careening wildly around outcroppings of shrubs and copses of trees that grew in unpredictable clusters from the water, amid the flattest landscape Arthur has ever seen.

They’re not permitted to hunt alligators; it’s the wrong month. But Tracker is an entertaining guide; well-travelled, well-educated, and with a long military background. As they speed through the waters, Tracker shouts facts about local history to them over the noise. When they slow to spot alligators in the marshes, he recounts hunting adventures with crossbow and spear and harpoon instead.

Arthur joins in with his own adventures - edited, yes, though not by much, because hunting is hunting it seems - and Tracker listens attentively, asking questions and comparing techniques.

Merlin, all the while, sits quietly beside him. He’s wearing that faint smile that Arthur remembers from battle campaigns around the campfire, when the knights told their stories.

Back then, Arthur had thought Merlin’s smile was because of the company. And perhaps, in part, it was. But now he knows the full truth of it. 

Merlin is smiling at the feeling of so much _nature_ all around them. Here, where the marshes stretch out to the sea, and into the grassy shore, Merlin is likely half drunk on the magic of the earth.

Later, Arthur thinks, he’ll ask Merlin to show him what the marshes feel like. A swamp, after all, must feel quite different from the sea.

When Arthur makes an offhand comment about the rocket launch, Tracker’s eyes light up. “You boys wouldn’t be interested in seeing the launch up _really_ close, would you?”

“Not too close,” Merlin says quickly.

“ _Very_ close, actually,” Arthur corrects.

Tracker’s weathered face breaks into a grin, and he leans forward, conspiratorial. “There’s a spot you can go,” he says, “tucked away, hidden in the river brush, near the Launchpad. Close, but safe, mind you. Can’t get a better view.”

“How do we get there?” Arthur asks eagerly.

“Before I tell you, there’s one thing you should know,” Tracker warns. “You’ll have to break some rules to get there. You boys have any problem with breaking rules?”

Arthur’s laughter startles a flock of pink winged birds into flight.

*

“This,” Merlin complains, as paddles his kayak behind Arthur, “is the _most mental_ thing you’ve done since you’ve got back.” He catches his oar between branches, and angrily yanks it free, nearly tipping himself into the river

Arthur ignores him, too busy checking for alligators. They apparently love to lurk among these maze-like waterways that line the river’s edge. They’ve seen a few so far, not that they could do much to avoid them. Their kayaks can barely navigate through the brittle-branch overhung watery passages. 

“Well,” Merlin goes on, “it’s the most mental thing aside from nearly destroying the world, I mean.”

Arthur gets his oar stuck in a bramble. Yanks it free. “I didn’t nearly destroy the world.”

“You did a little bit.”

“Exaggerating, as usual.” Arthur ducks to avoid getting his hair stuck in a branch, and finds himself reminded again of Labyrinth of Gedref. It was the last time he’d been in such a maze… although, yes, this has a water floor and bare-branched thickets, along with creatures that can eat you… so perhaps not so similar, in fact.

“Ow! Dammit! Stupid branch, let _go_ of- How much _longer_?” Merlin whines, and splashes water at Arthur’s back.

Arthur is reminded of hunting excursions to the Darkling Woods, even as he pulls out his mobile to check the NASA app. The strange combination of thoughts has him pausing, as it often does. But he shakes it off quickly. More quickly with each passing day, in fact. “Twenty-five minutes,” he answers. “The patrol boats should be gone by then, so we can re-join the main body of the river.”

Merlin spends the next few minutes grumbling about all the other ways they could have chosen to watch the damned rocket.

When the narrow waterway branches into two directions, Arthur shoves his oar into a bramble to stop himself. “Which way?” he asks.

And he’s not sure why - perhaps it’s because this place is so thick with life and water and nature - but Arthur can actually _feel_ the magic stirring at Merlin’s prodding. Can even feel its answer.

“It’s to the right,” Arthur says, wondering.

His boat rocks, and with a small splashing of water, Merlin guides his kayak along side. “You’re not guessing,” Merlin says, curious.

“No, I’m not.” The path is clear to him now. It’s nothing he sees. He just… feels it. It’s the right answer.

“Is that all right?”

He means the way Arthur can feel the echoes of magic, more and more, every time Merlin pulls him into the forces of the world. It’s nothing like how Merlin feels magic, Arthur knows. He envies what that must feel like. To feel magic in his own breath, his own blood-

“Arthur?” Merlin asks, and in his unsteady voice Arthur hears the echo of the distant past. Of his father’s terror. Of his own ignorance. Of Merlin’s lies.

“It feels amazing,” Arthur assures him, and watches the worry drain from Merlin’s blue eyes. “It’s… honestly, I… There aren’t words.” 

“No, there aren’t,” Merlin says, and his smile is radiant and beautiful and in a second it’s going to make Arthur tip over his boat to kiss the smile from Merlin’s face.

Instead, Arthur splashes him with his oar, and paddles forward. “Come on, we don’t want to miss it.”

“Wouldn’t think of it, _my lord_ ,” Merlin’s says, laughing, and Arthur hears it for the endearment that it truly is.

A short time later, they emerge from a tangle of brambles and leaves to discover the broad flowing river opening up before them.

Upon the distant river bank is the Launchpad. Upon it, a silver rocket the size of a skyscraper stands flanked by two massive red metal fuel tanks, all of it supported by a latticework metal tower.

Arthur shoves his oar into a nearby bush to hold his boat in place. Merlin eases his boat next to him, doing the same.

“That is…” Arthur starts, but he doesn’t have words for it, not in the modern language or the old. He’s seen pictures of these things of course. Has watched more videos than he can count. But looking up at it, at the real thing…

He’s not sure, all of a sudden, that he’s ready to witness what comes next.

Merlin whistles and sets down his oar, taking hold of Arthur’s kayak. “All right, that actually is impressive, I’ll give you that.”

“Yes. It really is.”

“You’re sure we’re not too close?”

Arthur is wondering the same thing, but Tracker had been adamant about their safety, alligators and snakes and patrol boats notwithstanding. “We’re safe,” he says. And then adds, at Merlin’s furrowed brows, “I double-checked on YouTube.”

“Oh, well, if the _internet_ says so…”

Arthur tries to elbow him, but nearly tips over. He has to settle on giving Merlin an irritated glare instead.

It’s fifteen minutes to launch.

“Good thing the weather was so agreeable,” Merlin says, sly.

“Are you looking for a thank you?”

“Me? Why would _I_ need to be thanked? Or, oh that’s right, do you mean for asking the weather to behave? So His Royal Spoiled Pratness could watch his precious rocket launch?”

“Oh as if adjusting the weather is so impressive,” Arthur lies, and starts streaming Mission Control from the NASA app.

At five minutes to launch, Merlin looks over at him, his expression gone unexpectedly thoughtful. “Who would have thought it,” he says softly.

Arthur doesn’t need to ask what he means. “Certainly not me.”

Merlin nods, but says nothing.

It has Arthur remembering that morning on the lakeside, when Merlin had confessed he’d never really imagined his life beyond the prophecy. Not at all, and certainly not with Arthur. Had never dared dream to have a life of his own.

Arthur covers Merlin’s hand, where he’s holding their kayaks together. Gives his warm fingers a squeeze. 

Because Arthur knows. He _knows_.

Merlin clears his throat. Lifts his eyes to the Launchpad.

Steam hisses from the tower, and Arthur nearly drops his mobile into the water in his haste to turn up the volume of the woman reciting the countdown. 

One minute until launch.

“If something goes wrong,” Merlin says, “I’ll protect us.”

Arthur hears echoes of words from long ago. Of ‘ _I’m here for you,’_ and of ‘ _I’ll always stand at your side’_ _and of_ _‘I use it for you, Arthur, only for you’_.

In the past, he had responded to such things with disbelief, with mistrust, with mockery. Today he nods. “I know you will.”

“T-Minus fifteen seconds,” the woman says from his mobile. “Standby for count.”

Each number she recites ratchets up Arthur’s tension. By ‘zero’ he’s so tense that he jolts in the kayak as massive smoke clouds billow outward and the support tower starts to fall.

As the flames lick the ground Arthur realizes he can’t hear what he sees happening- which makes no sense- surely it should be making some sort of noise-

He’s barely finished the thought when the thunderclap hits him, _a physical concussion of hot wind, obliterating all other noises, crackling and burning as if the_ air itself is aflame. 

Arthur gives an excited shout- or he thinks he does- as the rocket rises up like a god, flames surging from its base like the furnace of a dragon’s mouth, clouds puffing and inflating tall as buildings around it as all the while, its explosive percussion rattles Arthur’s ribs and heart and head.

He watches it climb, wide-eyed and shaking, acutely aware of how outside his own time he is; how small he is in the face of such wonders. 

But it’s _amazing_ \- gods above, just _utterly_ amazing- and it’s beautiful, as well. His ears are ringing from its dwindling roar, and his neck hurts from the arch of his neck, but gods- he can’t stop watching it, so beautiful, so beautiful…

A hand catches his arm, and he startles, realizing he was about to tip over in the boat. 

Overhead, another boom causes a puff of white smoke; the white rocket trail abruptly ending as the thing surges higher. “That’s the separation of the boosters,” Arthur says, between rapid breaths. His heart is pounding as if he’s just run a mile. “It’s beyond the worst of the gravity now. In the stratosphere.”

When Merlin doesn’t answer, Arthur looks over at him, and finds that Merlin’s not watching the rocket at all. He’s staring, smiling, at Arthur.

“What are you doing?” Arthur asks. “You’re missing the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen!”

Merlin’s eyes sparkle with the moisture. “No,” he says. “I’m not.”

 _Gods_ , Arthur thinks, _because there are_ _no words for_ the love- the _devotion_ \- that Arthur sees in Merlin’s eyes.

“Come _here_ ,” Arthur tells him, and grabs Merlin by the t-shirt, risking tipping them both over, to hauls Merlin into a kiss.

Merlin grabs at the boat and the branches as he leans into it, holding them both in perfect balance. Always holding the both of them in balance, Arthur thinks. Now just as he has before.

High up in the stratosphere, the rocket glides, to the cheers of the onlookers, into its orbit.

Upon the river, Arthur and Merlin kiss, hidden and unknown, among the reeds.

*

Days later, they’re driving to their next destination, an island off of the south of Florida. They can drive there, Merlin knows. But on the drive south, he turns into the long driveway leading into an open field. 

“Del Sol Airfields?” Arthur reads, half turning in the Bentley’s passenger seat to read the sign. “What are we doing here?”

“Flying to the Keys,” Merlin says, leaning over the steering wheel to watch a small Cessna lifting off from the runway, heading south.

“Flying?” Arthur repeats, and really, it’s sweet how he hides his concern. “I thought we were going to drive.”

“I decided this was better,” Merlin informs him, brow lifted, daring him to argue.

But Arthur has no ground to stand on, and he knows it, going on how he leans forward in his seat, peering up at another slightly larger plane, as it speeds down the runway. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Arthur looks at him, thoughtful, but then nods. When they pull into the parking lot, he’s the first out of the car. “ _Flying_ lessons,” he says, after reading a nearby sign. He looks like a child given a bag of sweets. “I could learn to _fly_ here?”

“You are unbelievable,” Merlin says, though to his own aggravation he can’t help but sound fond. Because of course, _of course_ , Arthur Pendragon would want to learn how to fly. He wonders what the damned dragon would have had to say to _that_.

“We’ll ask when we get inside,” Arthur says, and in his excitement actually grabs both their bags.

As he strides into the airfield office, Merlin glances skyward, to watch a small plane take flight. He’s not afraid. Not at all. Especially not of small aeroplanes like this. He’s actually looking forward to it, feeling the sky from within its embrace. Though he’s looking forward to Arthur’s reaction even more.

“Come along, Merlin!” Arthur shouts, then vanishes into the office door.

Merlin laughs and jogs to follow his excited child of a king.

*

An hour later, Merlin’s sitting in a four-seater Cessna, on the bench seat behind pilot and co-pilot, watching the plane’s pilot give the controls over to Arthur, who really doesn’t do more than just hold them steady as they soar over the vast, flat Florida landscape. 

The wind is singing in ecstasy at the presence of the Child of Magic, and the air is sighing with delight at the Once and Future King in its arms, and Merlin wonders, delirious with joy and half-drunk on magic, what in the hell he’d ever been afraid of to begin with.

*

They spend the Winter Solstice in a small house Arthur found for them on the internet. It’s upon the western shore of one of the larger, more popular islands, but it has its own private beach, surrounded by palm trees and thick-leaved shrubs. 

After they finish a swim, Merlin spreads out a blanket upon the warm sand, and Arthur lays down upon it, arm beneath his head so he can watch the sun descend into the ocean, from a sky already aflame with brilliant oranges and reds. 

“Now _that_ is a sunset,” Arthur muses.

Merlin lays at his side, propped up on his elbow to appreciate how Arthur’s skin shines golden with the softening light, how his chest rises and falls with his breaths, how his legs are still muscled and strong beneath his soaking swim trunks. Arthur is _beautiful_ , breathtakingly beautiful, and more so every day.

Merlin finds he can’t help but stare at him. But then, he’s allowed to do that, isn’t he. So he goes ahead and keeps on doing it.

“You’re missing the sunset,” Arthur laughs, and pokes at his ribs.

 _What’s a sunset_ , Merlin wants to say, _compared to you_? But his throat is too tight, and he can’t get out the words. So he looks at the setting sun instead. Watches the view go blurry. Tries not to blink, to let Arthur see what he’s feeling.

He can’t help it though. Moments like this, with Arthur warm and alive at his side, and the sun setting so beautifully into the tropic water, and their long lives stretching out before them, together, gods, always together-

“Come here,” Arthur says, rough, and pulls him into his arms. 

Merlin wraps himself around Arthur’s body, and kisses him, and kisses him…

The waves lap at the beach, and the leaves whisper in the humid wind, and the sky shifts from reds to oranges to violets as the sun dips below the line of the horizon.

Merlin lifts his head, half drunk on Arthur’s kisses, and on his touches, and on love. Arthur looks the same, a crooked smile upon his face as he lays beneath him, hands running up and down Merlin’s sides.

“I think we missed the sunset,” Arthur says, unconcerned.

“Happy Winter Solstice, then.”

“Feels more like a Summer Solstice, doesn’t it.”

“Too peaceful to be a Summer Solstice,” Merlin says, meaning Arthur’s return from the dead, and the battle they’d waged. 

Arthur must think he means the festival, though, because he quirks his head to the side, as he brushes hair from Merlin’s eyes. “Do they have a festival in Avalon on the Winter Solstice as well?”

“People gather near the standing stones. That’s about it, though.”

“You don’t throw a big party?”

“In the cold weather?”

“Just like you to avoid being out in cold weather.”

“Well if I’d had a _decent coat_ , or fur lined boots, like a certain royal prat I know-“

“Excuses, excuses…”

Merlin shoves himself up to an elbow. Peers narrow eyed down at Arthur. Then lifts a hand over Arthur’s chest, and wiggles his fingers.

Arthur’s yelp at the freezing sleet that follows is music to Merlin’s ears, for a few seconds anyway, until Arthur picks Merlin up and carries him, laughing and shouting out half-hearted protests, into ocean. 

Merlin’s protest silence completely, when Arthur embraces him in the warm, warm water, mouth finding his own as the foam hisses around them, salt and heat delicious as yuletide sweets upon Merlin’s lips.

“Royal bully,” Merlin breathes between kisses, fingers winding into Arthur’s dripping hair.

“Insolent sorcerer,” Arthur murmurs back, and moves his hands upon him, turning Merlin’s reply into soft gasps, and then groans, and finally, over and over again, simply “ _Arthur…_ ”

*

“I like America,” Arthur says to the starry sky.

It was Merlin’s idea to drag thick blankets out onto the beach for them to sleep on. Just like old times, Merlin had said, as if him laying bare chested and in thin sleeping pants in his king’s arms on an American beach was like anything they’d ever done before.

Somewhere in the distance, Arthur can hear the very faint echo of car engines. But otherwise, it’s peaceful. Only the bubbling hiss of waves caressing the shore. Only the whisper of wind through the plants. And above where they lay in each other’s arms, a sky full of stars, thick as clouds along the Milky Way.

It’s their own galaxy, Arthur knows that now. It contains billions upon billions of stars. Who knew how many with their own planets, their own moons. And that was just in their own galaxy, among the billions more.

He wonders if they’ll see them. He and Merlin. Wonders if they’ll ever venture into space, and look down upon the Earth as they had from the aeroplane.

It’s a terrifying- but _entirely_ alluring- idea. What adventures lay out there, among the stars? What new places are there to discover?

He can’t begin to try and imagine. But he hopes, someday, that he will.

“America isn’t like Florida,” Merlin says, and draws the blanket up over their bare shoulders, though the ocean breeze isn’t really _that_ cold.

“We’ll see,” Arthur says, because very possibly Merlin’s right, not that he’s going to admit that.

“When do you want to go see the rest of it?”

“There’s no hurry,” Arthur says, because there’s not. “We don’t need to return to England-“ He huffs, irritated, at Merlin’s translation spell. “I meant _Albion_ , until the Summer Solstice.” 

“For the Solstice Festival?” Merlin teases.

“Yes, _that’s_ what I was talking about,” Arthur says, and ruffles Merlin’s hair, realizing as he does it that it’s been months since he’s raised a hand to take a swat at him. Some old habits, he thinks, are best gotten rid of. And this one he finally has, thank the gods.

“So,” Merlin says, sounding tentative, “on the Summer Solstice, you still want to…?”

“To marry you, as we _already_ _agreed_ , and as I’ve said _repeatedly_ , yes.”

“Shut up,” Merlin grumbles, and wriggles beneath the blanket, kneeing him in the shin. 

High above, Arthur sees a faint point of light drift among the stars. “There’s a satellite,” he says, nodding upward. “Or perhaps it’s the space station, actually.”

“It’s not a plane?”

“The light is too dim to be a plane. Which means perhaps it’s not the space station after all. That tends to look brighter.”

Merlin hums, disinterested, as Arthur watches the thing glide across the heavens. After a few minutes, it disappears in the haze of the horizon.

“What do the stars feel like?” Arthur hears himself ask.

“Would you like me to show you?” is Merlin’s reply.

Arthur says “yes” so quickly that Merlin laughs, delighted and surprised. 

It reminds Arthur of afternoons chasing after him upon the castle ramparts, and of wrestling for the last piece of mince pie at the yuletide feasts, and of dozens of other times when he’d managed to delight his manservant-turned-friend unexpectedly.

“Perhaps later, though,” Arthur says, spotting another light gliding among the stars.

“That one’s a plane,” Merlin says firmly.

“Yes, see the flashing red lights?”

Merlin snuggles against him- or rather he shifts his limbs in a way that should approximate snuggling, if it wasn’t so full of knobby knees bumping against his legs and a sharp elbow to the ribs and finally a pointy chin dropping onto his shoulder. When he finally settles, he sighs out, warm and relaxed, into Arthur’s neck: “I wonder what it looks like.”

“What what looks like?”

“Flying in a plane through the night sky.”

“We can find out any time you’d like.”

“I can wait until we fly home,” Merlin says, sounding unworried. “We’ll have to find a way to get the Bentley safely back too.”

“You and that car,” Arthur says, and presses a kiss to Merlin’s ocean-salty hair.

Above them, the plane lights flash red and white as it crosses the Milky Way, soaring eastward, towards Albion, towards home.

********

This story is in the BBC Merlin canon-compliant "We Begin Again" universe:  
\- [Sweet Dreams of Mistletoe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8909749): _4 Years Before Camlann_  
\- [The Return of Magic (Upon Dragon's Wings)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12463959): _1 Year Post Camlann_  
\- [Would you if you could (Remember)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11749296): _30 Years Post Camlann_  
\- [And Like The Cycle Of The Year We Begin Again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6092269/chapters/13964185): _1,500 Years Post Camlann... When Arthur Returns_  
\- [Our Destinies Our Own](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15736473/chapters/36588432): Story picks up the same day We Begin Again ends  
\- **Ever Onward, Through Magic, Through Love**

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please hit "Kudos". [The link if you downloaded](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16819543). Thanks!
> 
> Author's Notes:  
> \- The original idea for the story was "let's get Merlin over his technology issues and onto a plane". It turned into "let's show Merlin and Arthur's relationship evolving into everything it should be, in magic, in the modern world, and in love".  
> \- They do have Transatlantic Cruises, apparently. If want to be made too terrified to take them, search YouTube for transatlantic storms. And yes, people actually during the storms, right along with the screams of others.  
> \- You can, in fact, hunt alligators in Florida during certain months, and you can hire private Air Boat tours to do so. "Tracker" is inspired by friends from Florida who do these things. They're crazy and brilliant and have more stories than you have time to hear them.  
> \- Don't watch rocket launches from places where you shouldn't. Be safe. :)


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